THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here’s to the Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore’s debt, when the deeds of might are told!
They stand to the deck through the battle’s wreck, when the great shells roar and screech—
And never they fear; when the foe is near, to practice what they preach:
But, off with your hat, and three times three, for the war-ship’s true-blue sons,
The men who batter the foe—my Boys—the men behind the guns.
Oh, light and merry of heart are they, when they swing into port, once more,
When, with more than enough of the “green-backed stuff,” they start for their leave-o’-shore;
And you’d think, perhaps, that these blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street,
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce chap to eat—
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys,—the lads who serve the guns.
But, say not a word, till the shot is heard, that tells of the peace-blood’s ebb,
Till the long, low roar grows more and more, from the ships of the “Yank” and “Reb.”
Till over the deep the tempests sweep, of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair, in the throes of a living Hell:
Then, down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the mid-day suns,
You’ll find the chaps who are giving the raps—the men behind the guns.
—Rooney (Adapted).
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RAPHAEL SEMMES
DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE
(1809-1877)
“Sit apart, write; let them hear or let them forbear; the written word abides, until, slowly and unexpectedly, and in widely sundered places, it has created its own church.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
RAPHAEL SEMMES
DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE
(1809-1877)
“We started from Ole England fer to cripple up our foes,
We started from Ole England fer to strike some rapid blows,
So we coasted to the Azores where we ran a packet down,
And then to the Bermudas, where we burned the Royal Crown,
Then we scampered to Bahia, fer to sink the gay Tycoon,
And to scuttle the Justina, before the Harvest Moon.
We hit across the ocean to race by Cape Good Hope
And in Madagascar channel towed Johanna with a rope.
Away off at Sumatra, we had lots an’ lots uv fun,
When we winged the Pulo Condor; but say,—we had a run,
An’ a pretty bit uv fightin’, when we took the Emma Jane
Off th’ heated coast uv India, near th’ bendin’ sugar cane.
Yes, we did some privateerin’, as wuz privateerin’, sure,
An’ we scuttled many a schooner, it wuz risky business pure.
But—stranger—we’d be laughin’, jest filled with persiflage,
If we hadn’t had a seance with that bloomin’ Kearsarge.”
—Song of the Chief Mate of the Alabama.—1864.
IT was off the east coast of South America. The year was 1864, and a little schooner—the Justina—bobbed along, with the flag of the United States Government flying jauntily from her gaff.
Suddenly there was a movement on deck. Men rushed hither and thither with some show of excitement. Glasses were brought out and raised,—smothered cries of excitement were mingled with orders to trim sails. All eyes looked with suspicion and dismay at a long, graceful vessel which was seen approaching from the northward.
“The Alabama!” cried one.
“Yes, the cursed Alabama!” answered another. “We are lost!”
On, on came the pursuing vessel; a cloud of black smoke rolling from her smoke-stack; her white sails bellying in the fresh breeze; for she was rigged like a barquentine, with a lean body, single smoke-stack, and a polished rifle-gun winking in the sun-rays upon her bow. On, on, she came, and then—puff! boom!—a single shot came dancing in front of the slow-moving schooner.
“Pull down the colors!” shouted the Captain of the Justina. “We’re done for!”
Down came the ensign of the United States, and the little schooner was luffed so that she stood still. The Alabama ranged up alongside, a boat soon brought a crew of boarders, and, before many moments, she was in the hands of Captain Raphael Semmes and his men.
That evening the Alabama steamed southward, the crew of the Justina was on board, her rich cargo filled the hold, and a black curl of smoke and hissing flames marked where the proud, little merchantman had once bobbed upon the rolling water. Raphael Semmes was happy, for his work of destroying the commerce of the United States Navy had progressed far better than he had hoped.
RAPHAEL SEMMES.
“Men!” cried he, “The cause of the Confederate States of America was never brighter upon the ocean than now. Give three times three for Jeff. Davis—his soldiers and his sailors!”
A rousing cheer rose above the waves, and the proud privateer bounded onward upon her career of destruction and death. The Alabama was in the zenith of her power.
The scene now shifts to the harbor of Cherbourg, upon the western coast of France. The Alabama lay there,—safely swinging at her anchor-chains within the break-water. She had come in to refit, for her bottom was much befouled by a long cruise, which had been successful. Built at Birkenhead, England, for the Confederate States Government, she set sail in August, 1862; and had been down the coast of North and South America; around the Cape of Good Hope to India, and back to the shores of France. Sixty-six vessels had fallen into her clutches, and of these fifty-two had been burned; ten had been released on bond; one had been sold, and one set free. Truly she had had a marvellous trip.
As she slumbered on—like a huge sea-turtle—a black cloud of smoke appeared above the break-water, and a low-bodied United States cruiser slowly steamed into the harbor. She nosed about, as if looking for safe anchorage, and kept upon the opposite side of the little bay.
Immediately all hands clambered to the side of the Confederate cruiser, and glasses were levelled at this vessel which carried the flag of opposition.
“She’s stronger than we are,” said one of the crew.
Another grinned.
“Look at her eleven-pounders,” said he. “I see her name, now. She’s the Kearsarge, and about our tonnage, but I reckon that she carries more men.”
Captain Semmes, himself, had come up from below, and was examining the intruder with his glass.
“Boys!” said he, “we’ve got to fight that ship.”
And, as he withdrew into the cabin, all seemed to be well pleased with this announcement.
The Kearsarge, commanded by Captain John A. Winslow, had been lying at anchor in the Scheldt, off Flushing, Holland, when a gun roared from the forward part of the ship, warning those officers who had gone ashore, to come on board. Steam was raised, and, as soon as all were collected on deck, the Captain read a telegram from Mr. Dayton, the Minister to France from the United States. It said:
“The Alabama has arrived at Cherbourg. Come at once or she will escape you!”
“I believe that we’ll have an opportunity to fight her,” said Captain Winslow. “So be prepared.”
At this, all of his sailors cheered wildly.
The Kearsarge was a staunch craft; she was two hundred and thirty-two feet over all, with thirty-three feet of beam, and carried seven guns; two eleven inch pivots, smooth bore; one thirty-pound rifle, and four light thirty-two pounders. Her crew numbered one hundred and sixty-three men. The sleeping Alabama had but one hundred and forty-nine souls on board, and eight guns: one sixty-eight pounder pivot rifle, smooth bore; one one hundred-pounder pivot, and six heavy thirty-two pounders. So, you see, that the two antagonists were evenly matched, with the superior advantage of the numbers of men on the Kearsarge offset by the extra guns of her opponent.
Most of the officers upon the Kearsarge were from the merchant service, and, of the crew, only eleven were of foreign birth. Most of the officers upon the Alabama had served in the navy of the United States; while nearly all of her crew were either English, Irish, or Welsh. A few of the gunners had been trained aboard the Excellent: a British training ship in Portsmouth Harbor. Her Captain—Raphael Semmes—was once an officer in the navy of the United States. He had served in the Mexican War, but had joined the Southern cause, as he was a Marylander. He was an able navigator and seaman.
The Kearsarge cruised about the port of Cherbourg, poked her bows nearly into the break-water, and then withdrew. The French neutrality law would only allow a foreign vessel to remain in a harbor for twenty-four hours.
“Will she come out?” was the question now upon every lip aboard the Kearsarge. “Will she come out and fight? Oh, just for one crack at this destroyer of our commerce!”
But she did not come out, and the Kearsarge beat around the English Channel in anxious suspense.
Several days later Captain Winslow went ashore and paid a visit to the United States Commercial Agent.
“That beastly pirate will not fight,” he thought. “All she wants to do is to run away.”
Imagine how his eyes shone when he was handed the following epistle!
“C.S.S. Alabama, Cherbourg, June 14th, 1864.
“To A. Bonfils, Esqr., Cherbourg;
“Sir:—I hear that you were informed by the United States Consul that the Kearsarge was to come to this port solely for the prisoners landed by me, and that she was to depart in twenty-four hours. I desire you to say to the U. S. Consul that my intention is to fight the Kearsarge as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. I hope these will not detain me more than until to-morrow evening, or after the morrow morning at furthest. I beg she will not depart before I am ready to go out.
“I have the honor to be, very respectfully,
“Your obedient servant,
“R. Semmes, Captain.”
“Ha! Ha!” chuckled Winslow. “We’re in for it, now. Hurray!” and he hastened back to his ship to spread the glad tidings.
“My boys!” said he to his crew. “It is probable that the two ships will engage on parallel lines, and, if defeated, the Alabama will seek for neutral waters. It is necessary, therefore, that we begin this action several miles from the break-water. The Alabama must believe that she can win, or she would not fight us, for, if we sink her, she cannot be replaced by the Confederate Government. As for ourselves, let us never give up, and—if we sink—let us go down with the flag flying!”
“Hear! Hear!” cried all. “We’re with you, Captain. Never give up the ship!”
“Clean decks, boys!” continued brave Winslow. “Get everything ship-shape for the coming affair, for we’re in for as tight a little fight as e’er you entered upon.”
Preparations were immediately made for battle, but no Alabama appeared.
Thursday passed; Friday came; the Kearsarge waited in the channel with ports down; guns pivoted to starboard; the whole battery loaded; and shell, grape, and canister ready to use in any method of attack or defence,—but no Alabama appeared. A French pilot-boat drifted near, and the black-eyed skipper cried out,
“You fellers look out for ze Alabama. She take in much coal. Whew! She take much of ze captured stuff ashore. Whew! She scrub ze deck. Whew! She put ze sailors to ze business of sharpening ze cutlass and ze dirk. Whew! You look out for ze great privateer! Whew!”
Captain Winslow only smiled.
“Zey have ze big feast,” continued the Frenchman. “Zey dr-e-e-nk ze wine. Zey stan’ on ze chairs and zey say, ‘We will seenk ze Yankee dog.’ Ta donc! Zey call you ze dog!”
And still Captain Winslow smiled. But, next day, his smile turned to a frown.
It was Sunday, the nineteenth day of June. The weather was beautiful; the atmosphere was somewhat hazy; the wind was light; and there was little sea. At ten o’clock the Kearsarge was drifting near a buoy about three miles eastward from the entrance of Cherbourg break-water. Her decks had been newly holy-stoned; the brass work had been cleaned; the guns polished, and the crew had on their Sunday clothes. They had been inspected, and dismissed—in order to attend divine service.
At 1.20 a cry rang out:
“She comes!”
The bell was tolling for prayers.
“The Alabama! The Alabama! She’s moving, and heading straight for us!”
All rushed to the deck; the drum beat to quarters. Captain Winslow laid aside his prayer-book, seized his trumpet, ordered the boat about, and headed seaward. The ship was cleared for action and the battery was pivoted to starboard.
Yes, she was coming!
From the western entrance of the safe, little French seaport steamed the long-bodied, low-hulled privateer: her rakish masts bending beneath the spread of canvas: her tall funnel belching sepia smoke. A French iron-clad frigate—the Couronne—accompanied her, flying the pennant of the Commander-of-the-Port. In her wake plodded a tiny fore-and-aft-rigged steamer-yacht: the Deerhound, showing the flag of the Royal Mersey (British) Yacht Club. The frigate—having convoyed the Confederate privateer to the limit of the French waters (three marine miles from the coast)—put down her helm and ploughed back into port. The steam yacht continued on, and remained near the scene of action.
As the Alabama had started upon her dash into the open, Captain Semmes had mounted a gun-carriage, and had cried,
“Officers and Seamen of the Alabama:
“You have at length another opportunity of meeting the enemy—the first that has been presented to you since you sank the Hatteras! In the meantime you have been all over the world, and it is not too much to say that you have destroyed, and driven for protection under neutral flags, one-half of the enemy’s commerce, which, at the beginning of the war, covered every sea. This is an achievement of which you may well be proud, and a grateful country will not be unmindful of it. The name of your ship has become a household word wherever civilization extends! Shall that name be tarnished by defeat? The thing is impossible! Remember that you are in the English Channel, the theatre of so much of the naval glory of our race, and that the eyes of all Europe are, at this moment, upon you. The flag that floats over you is that of a young Republic, which bids defiance to her enemies whenever and wherever found! Show the world that you know how to uphold it! Go to your quarters!”
A wild yell had greeted these stirring expressions.
The shore was black with people, for the word had been passed around that the two sea-warriors were to grapple in deadly embrace. Even a special train had come from Paris to bring the sober townsfolk to Cherbourg, where they could view the contest. They were chattering among themselves, like a flock of magpies.
“Voilà!” said a fair damsel, whose eyes were fairly shining with excitement. “Oh, I hope zat ze beeg gray fellow weel win.”
She meant the Alabama, for the Confederates dressed in that sober color.
“Zis ees ze naval Waterloo!” whispered a veteran of the Crimean War.
It was 10.50 o’clock. The Kearsarge had been steaming out to sea, but now she wheeled. She was seven miles from shore and one and one-quarter miles from her opponent. She steered directly for her, as if to ram her and crush through her side. The Alabama sheered off and presented her starboard battery. The Kearsarge came on, rapidly, and—at 10.57 was about eighteen hundred yards from her enemy—then—Crash! Roar! A broadside thundered from the Confederate privateer, while the solid shot screamed through the rigging of the Yankee man-of-war.
On! On! came Captain Winslow’s gallant craft, while a second and a third broadside crashed into her. The rigging tore and swayed, but she was little injured. She was now within nine hundred yards.
“Sheer! Sheer!” cried the Union Commander.
The Kearsarge spun off and broke her long silence with the starboard battery. Crash! Roar! the shells pounded around the great privateer, and, with a full head of steam, the corsair of the Southern Confederacy swept onward. Crash! Roar! she answered with shell, and the bursting iron shivered the foremast of her doughty opponent.
Captain Winslow was fearful that the enemy would make for the shore, so he spun over his helm to port in the endeavor to run under the Alabama’s stern and rake her. But she sheered off, kept her broadside to him, and pounded away like a pugilist. The ships were a quarter of a mile (440 yards) away from each other. They were circling around in a wide arc, plugging away as fast as they could load. The spectators cheered, for it was as good a show as they had ever witnessed.
“Eet ees fine!” said the veteran of the Crimea. “Eet remin’ me of ze battaile at Balaklava!”
Suddenly a wild cheer rose from the deck of the United States cruiser. A shot had struck the spanker-gaff on the enemy and her ensign had come down on the run.
“Hurray!” shouted the seamen. “That means we’ll win, sure!”
The fallen ensign re-appeared at the mizzen, while firing from the Alabama became rapid and wild. The gunners of the Kearsarge had been cautioned against shooting without direct aim, and had been told to point their heavy guns below, rather than above the water-line.
Captain Winslow was busy with his orders.
“Clear the enemy’s deck with the light guns!” he shouted. “Sink the Confederate with the heavy iron!”
Cheer succeeded cheer from his sailors. Caps were thrown into the air, or overboard. Jackets were tossed aside. Now, certain of victory, the men were shouting wildly, as each projectile took effect.
“That’s a good one!”
“Down, boys, down!”
“Give her another like the last!”
“Now—we have her!”
The vessels continued to swing around each other in wide circles, and—at this moment—a sixty-eight pound Blakely shell passed through the starboard bulwarks of the Kearsarge below the main rigging, exploded on the quarter-deck, and wounded three of the crew of the after pivot-gun. The three unfortunate men were speedily taken below, but the act was done so quietly, that—at the termination of the fight—a large number of the crew were unaware that any of their comrades were injured.
Two shots now crashed through the port-holes occupied by the thirty-two pounders; one exploded in the hammock-netting; the other shrieked through the opposite port; yet no one was hurt. Fire blazed from the deck; the alarm calling for fire-quarters was sounded, and the men who had been detailed for this emergency put it out. The rest stayed at the guns.
“THE MEN WERE SHOUTING WILDLY, AS EACH PROJECTILE TOOK EFFECT.”
The eleven-inch shells were doing terrible execution upon the quarter-deck of the Alabama. Three of them crashed into the eight-inch pivot-gun port; the first swept off the forward part of the gun’s crew; the second killed one man and wounded several others; the third struck the breast of the gun-carriage and spun around on the deck until one of the men picked it up and threw it overboard. The ship was careening heavily to starboard, while the decks were covered with the dead and dying. A shell plunged into the coal bunker and a dense cloud of coal dust arose. Crippled and torn, the hulking privateer began to settle by the stern. Her guns still spat and growled, and her broadsides were going wild. She was fast weakening.
“Any one who silences that after pivot-gun will get one hundred dollars!” cried Captain Semmes, as he saw the fearful accuracy of its fire.
Crash! a whole broadside from the privateer spat at this particular piece. It was in vain.
Around and around circled the belching Kearsarge. Seven times she had swooped about the weakening gladiator of the sea, and her fire was more and more accurate. She was like a great eagle closing in for a deaththrust. Captain Semmes was in a desperate situation.
“Hoist the fore-trysail and jibs!” he called out above the din of cannon. “Head for the French coast!”
As the sailors scrambled to obey, the Alabama presented her port battery to the Kearsarge. She showed gaping sides and only two guns were bearing.
At this moment the chief engineer came up on the deck of the privateer.
“The fires are all out and the engines will not work!” he reported to Captain Semmes.
The doughty seaman turned to his chief executive officer, Mr. Kell.
“Go below, sir,” he shouted, “and see how long the ship can float!”
In a few moments the sailor had returned from his inspection.
“Captain!” cried he, saluting. “She will not stay on the sea for ten minutes.”
The face of the Confederate was ashen, as he answered,
“Then, sir, cease firing, shorten sail, and haul down the colors. It will never do in this Nineteenth Century for us to go down with the decks covered with our gallant wounded!”
As he ceased speaking, a broadside roared from the side of his sinking vessel. The ensign of the Kearsarge had been stopped (rolled up and tied with a piece of twine) and, as a shell crashed through her rigging, a piece hit the flag-halyards—parted them—and unstopped the flag. It unfurled itself gallantly in the breeze, and, as its beautiful striping waved aloft, the sailors upon the deck gave a loud cheer, for this was the omen of Victory.
At this moment, two of the junior officers upon the Alabama swore that they would never surrender, and, in a spirit of mutiny, rushed to the two port guns and opened fire upon the Union vessel.
“He is playing us a trick!” shouted Winslow. “Give him another broadside!”
Again the shot and shell went crashing through the sides of the Confederate cruiser. The Kearsarge was laid across her bows for raking, and, in a position to use grape and canister.
A white flag was then shown over the stern of the Alabama and her ensign was half-masted; Union down.
“Cease firing!” shouted Captain Winslow.
The great fight was over. It had lasted one hour and two minutes.
Chugety, plug, splash! The boats were lowered from the Alabama, and her Master’s mate rowed to the Kearsarge, with a few of his wounded.
“We are sinking,” said he. “You must come and help us!”
“Does Captain Semmes surrender his ship?” asked Winslow.
“Yes!”
“All right. Then I’ll help you!”
Fullam grinned.
“May I return with this boat and crew in order to rescue the drowning?” he asked. “I pledge you my word of honor that I will then come on board and surrender.”
Captain Winslow granted his request.
With less generosity, the victorious Commander could have detained the officers and men, supplied their places with his own sailors, and offered equal aid to the distressed. His generosity was abused. Fullam pulled to the midst of the drowning; rescued several officers; went to the yacht Deerhound, and cast his boat adrift; leaving a number of men struggling in the water.
The Alabama was settling fast.
“All hands overboard!” cried Mr. Kell. “Let every man grab a life-preserver, or a spar.”
As the sailors plunged into the sea, Captain Semmes dropped his sword into the waves and leaped outward, with a life-preserver around his waist. Kell followed, while the Alabama launched her bows high in the air, and—graceful, even in her death throes—plunged stern-foremost into the deep. A sucking eddy of foam, spars, and wreckage marked where once had floated the gallant ship.
Thus sank the terror of the merchantmen—riddled through and through—and no cheer arose as her battered hulk went down in forty-five fathoms of water. Her star had set.
The Deerhound had kept about a mile to windward of the two contestants, but she now steamed towards the mass of living heads, which dotted the surface of the sea. Her two boats were lowered, and Captain Semmes was picked up and taken aboard, with forty others. She then edged to the leeward and steamed rapidly away.
An officer quickly approached Captain Winslow.
“Better fire a shot at the yacht,” he said, saluting. “She’s got Captain Semmes aboard and will run off with him.”
Winslow smiled.
“It’s impossible,” said he. “She’s simply coming around!”
Another officer approached the commander of the Kearsarge.
“That beastly yacht is carrying off our men,” said he. “Better bring her to, Captain!”
“No Englishman who carries the flag of the Royal Yacht Squadron can so act!” Winslow replied,—somewhat pettishly. “She’s simply coming around.”
But she never “came around,” and Captain Raphael Semmes was soon safe upon British soil. He had fought a game fight. The superior gunnery of the sailors of the Kearsarge had been too much for him. Nine of his crew were dead and twenty-one wounded, while the Kearsarge had no one killed and but three wounded; one of whom died shortly afterwards.
Thus,—the lesson is:
If you want to win: Learn how to shoot straight!
Captain Raphael Semmes died quietly at Mobile, Alabama, August 30th, 1877. His ill-fated Alabama had inflicted a loss of over seven million dollars upon the commerce of the United States.
A number of wise men met, many years afterwards, in Geneva, Switzerland, and decided, that, as the British Government had allowed this vessel to leave their shores, when warned by the American minister of her character and intention to go privateering, it should therefore pay for all the vessels which the graceful cruiser had destroyed. England had broken the neutrality laws.
John Bull paid up.
But,
—Boys—
it
hurt!